Young Writers Society

A/N: This is for Steggy's Halloween contest! I could definitely use some recommendations and critiques on rhythm.

Born in the capital of Illinois
His grandaddy raised 'gainst the Iroquois
A gun in his saddle, rose in his hand
Corn meal mush and brown beans canned

Heading down south and heading due west
Frown 'bout his mouth and a weight on his chest
"Could it really be, oh my love, my joy?"
Wondered and fretted the heartsick cowboy

Ratatatat through the bushes and trees
Six guns cracking: onetwothree!
Confusion, pain, moonlight red
A bite in his leg and his horse - dead!

Red rose tumbled with the fall
Came to rest, and that was all
"Hands up, boy" a cruel voice growled
Revealed in the moonglow, the cruel face scowled

A star didn't glint on the old man's breast
Neither were his friends so lawfully blessed
They chawed and spat and looked him up and down
Stole some tobacky, and money from town

They took his saddle, his gun, and his boots
And dashed off a’grinning, with Injun hoots
The cowboy looked ‘round, and all he could see:
A dead horse bleeding on a rose from Tennessee

How far could it be, the next riverbed?
From hence he could travel, hence he could tread
A wound in his leg did hardly deter
His shuffling on without boot or spur

No river found, only a steep incline
‘Twas then a shiver trembled down his spine
Flick’ring in the distance, white as a ghost
Stood Isabel Rose, the one he loved most

It started to rain, heavy as an ox
The mud and the rocks did tatter his socks
But her image was there: his joy, his love
Hovering pale as a specter above

Lifting his voice beyond thunder and rain
Poured out his lonesomeness, poured out his pain
Just ‘fore he slipped on the rocks and then fell
He uttered a cry for help: “Isabel!”

He saw her arm reach for him through the smoke
Transparent no more, but textured as oak
She saved him from falling, setting him straight
But withdrew again; the darkness was great

Dropped to his knees and praying to the stars
He wept and he wept, washing clean his scars
“Why must I suffer? Why hadn’t I died?”
Quiv’ring and scared, with no ghost for a guide

Isabel the spirit had meant no harm
No hesitation to reach out her arm
But now her poor love was forever cursed
For touching a ghost - for death he’d thirst!

To this very day, the cowboy wanders
With all that he has, his time he squanders
Old and tired, but healthy as a horse
His heart still a’drumming, laced with remorse

She had died alone in the cold prairie chill
He would go on living
when the world
stood
still.